The next morning,Rachel found Tristan in the solar, the ledger fragment spread across the table. He looked up at her entrance, and there was no hesitation in his eyes now.
“We can’t sit idle,” he said. “Guy’s thefts are ongoing. We have proof, but not yet enough to sway the whole court. We’ll need help.”
Rachel joined him, placing her hand over the parchment. “Isolde,” she said. “Wasn’t her husband going away on some trip? She can move quietly, has connections at court, and is terrifying.”
Tristan’s mouth softened. “Aye. If anyone can carry this evidence safely into Westminster, it is she.”
So they sent word, and days later, when Isolde arrived, Rachel pressed the ledger into her hands with a mixture of hope and dread.
“Be careful,” Tristan said gruffly.
Isolde arched a brow, resplendent in crimson. “When am I not?” She tucked the evidence into her satchel with the air of a woman quite used to managing dangerous errands. “Keep the hearth warm, Sir Broodypants. I’ll see to the rest.”
Rachel snorted into her sleeve, hearing her nickname on Isolde’s lips. Tristan’s ears went faintly pink.
And so the waiting began. Two weeks of tense hope, of meals cooked with nervous laughter, of long walks where words weren’t always needed. Two weeks of daring to believe they might have a chance.
Until at last the thunder of hoofbeats shook Greystone’s courtyard once more…
Two weeksafter Isolde departed with their precious evidence, the thunder of hoofbeats across Greystone’s courtyard came with the kind of authority that made even the stones sit up straighter.
Rachel looked up from the soup she’d been stirring with more intensity than a broth really deserved. Cooking had become her meditation lately—chop, stir, taste, repeat. Something she could control while her insides twisted themselves into knots over whether Isolde’s gamble would save them or leave them dangling from a gallows.
At the head of the approaching cavalcade rode Lady Jacquetta Rivers in cloth-of-gold that caught the morning light like captured fire. Even her palfrey seemed to prance with more dignity than the average horse. Behind her came a retinue that screamed serious court business. Heralds bearing the king’s banners, clerks with bulging satchels, scribes armed with ink-stained fingers, and enough guards to remind everyone that this wasn’t a friendly visit.
“Saints preserve us,” Marta muttered at the hearth, grinding peppercorns like they were sacred relics. “Her ladyship’s brought half the court with her.”
The smell of perfume and horse sweat seeped through the open shutters. Rachel caught herself wiping damp palms on her apron. “This doesn’t look like a social call.”
“Nay,” Tristan said from the doorway, voice low, his broad shoulders tense. He’d been at the solar window since dawn, watching, waiting and hoping. “This has the look of official business.”
When Lady Jacquetta Rivers finally swept into the hastily arranged great hall, the air shifted. Even dusty from travel, she radiated authority so sharp it could cut marble. Her eyes catalogued everything—cracked stones, thin tapestries, the nervous faces of Greystone’s household—with the precision of an appraiser deciding whether to invest or demolish.
“Sir Tristan de Valois,” she declared, her voice crystalline. “By royal commission of His Grace King Edward, I am here to deliver judgment on certain irregularities regarding your case.”
A parchment appeared with seals so thick with wax and ribbon they practically glowed. The hall stilled. Hugo muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer—or a wager.
Jacquetta’s commissioners began laying out shipping manifests, witness statements, merchant records. Rachel’s stomach flipped over when Jacquetta gestured to her.
“Mistress Rachel. Show us what your … unique perspective revealed.”
Her pulse fluttered, but she stepped forward, explaining the discrepancies, the shipments, the skim, the flourish that marked every theft. Guy de Montague’s personal signature. Gasps rippled through the hall. Jacquetta dismantled every possible objection with unnerving calm, citing clerks, dockworkers, and merchants who had testified under oath.
Then, with a wicked curve of her lips, she delivered the killing stroke.
“As for Sir Guy,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, “he currently contemplates the view from the Tower’s highest chamber. His Grace has lodged him there until the matter of his treason, theft, and attempted murder is settled. The ravens, I hear, find his company diverting.”
Her breath left her in a rush. Tristan went rigid beside her, then slowly, cautiously, let the words sink in.
“And you, Sir Tristan de Valois,” Jacquetta continued, turning, her tone shifting to something warmer, “by this same commission, the charges against you are dismissed. Your lands, titles, and honor are restored.”
The hall erupted—cheers, sobs, Hugo’s roar of triumph shaking the rafters. Servants cried openly, Marta dropped her spoon, and Rachel clapped a hand over her mouth as relief crashed over her like a wave.
But Jacquetta wasn’t finished. She gestured, and clerks brought forward wooden chests. Gold, jewels—and spices. Real cinnamon bark, saffron bright as fire, peppercorns enough to ransom dukes. Copper pots gleamed, knives shone with lethal precision.
“His Grace,” Jacquetta said with deliberate weight, “wishes not only to restore what was lost but to invest in what he deems promising. He finds your culinary … innovations… worthy of royal attention.”
Hugo bellowed his thanks to the saints. Tristan stood straighter, pride flickering across his face, though his eyes—Rachel noticed—kept finding hers.
